His Last Flight
by SecretTwin
Summary: His brother told him on the other side of the glass. He gets to say goodbye. That's when he decided. He hasn't lost everything. Not quite. He can still make choices. And he will choose how this ends. Two-shot. Sherlock on the plane, HLV into TAB.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Warnings: suicidal thoughts/actions, depression, and mention of drugs. What happened on the plane in HLV.**

 **Disclaimer: BBC Sherlock belongs to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.**

* * *

"In all the words of mice and men, the saddest are, 'It might have been.'" - Kurt Vonnegut

x

x

 _Everything. Everything you've ever done, is what you did._

He is calm boarding the plane. The excruciating part is over. There's no danger here. All Sherlock has to do is drift away.

He unbuttons his jacket and takes the seat on the right side, specifically for the direction it is not facing. Normally there would be a slight ache from clenching his abdominal muscles while sitting down, but there is no pain now. Or perhaps he is numb to the smaller wounds that accompany him.

 _This is hard. Really hard. Hardest thing I've ever had to do._

The Game has forced them to say goodbyes in the past, but they were never final. It seemed impossible before today that he would ever have to leave permanently. There was always a cheat code, a short cut back.

Until Mary.

 _Dear Mary… Mother Mary._

Until Mary, the idea of his own mortality was foreign. Of course he would die. The knowledge never frightened him though. He knew John would be there when he returned after those two long years away. Even though the nights were sometimes so cold and empty, he knew each unforgivable dawn brought him closer to the minute he could come home. Even though he was dead, John would never cease waiting, just as he would never stop until the very last of Moriarty's network was buried.

But he realized on the night of his return that Mary fulfilled a part of John's world that he could not. That perhaps, he would die without the part of his being that he has come to cherish, that he has come to depend on as steadfastly as the beating of his heart.

Such poisonous truths were introduced to him the moment she said, "I do." She will take care of John. She will keep the promise that he could not.

In all his life, in all his memories, he cannot recall a single moment which has ever come close to the torture of John's hand leaving his.

How did it come to this? This mess… this absolute hell where John is… is not? Only one week ago they were celebrating Christmas.

One week. Could it have truly been just seven days ago? And it only took half an hour to destroy everything he had foolishly worked to preserve. He thought he could fix it. He thought he could help Mary. He could save her a lifetime of debt to Magnussen. He was supposed to protect her and John and the baby.

 _Sherlock has made one enormous mistake._

A gun shot ricochets in his head. He presses two fingers to his temple. His pulse throbs.

It cost him everything. The skin on his back, the breath from his lungs he had shed to take down the remaining network. Two years without John. Two horrible years that could have been spent… no. Not even in that lifetime. Merely Wishful Thinking. Would he still have met Mary?

 _What life? I've been away._

No. John wouldn't have met Mary. Sherlock burdened him with his existence. He burdened John with his death. There is no reality where he and Sherlock are not. Except this one. Soon, there will only be John.

 _Don't try to be clever._

His face burns. He keeps his head turned toward the window and presses his knuckles into his eyes.

He should have listened. John was right. Always right. John always knows.

As far as the public will know, it will be accidental. All of Scotland Yard will soon be cashing in bets. If word travels about the truth, Sherlock does not mind. He has already died once in disgrace. He wonders if it is like when the pipe hit him in...

The scars on his back ache. He clenches his fist to keep from reaching back and soothing them. He does not deserve relief. Perhaps this second disgrace is comparable to when the brute hit him the second time. Didn't hurt as much as the first.

It still hurts though.

The paper next to his phone, folded twice, crinkles in his trouser pocket. It feels heavier than before. Soon everything will have a weight to it. He won't be able to even open his eyes.

He didn't have to do it, there was no point this time, but it allowed him a sense of normality while shooting up. Survival instinct kicked in after forty minutes, brain telling him to stop, too much. So he started writing. It… oddly… calmed him.

There is a black suitcase in the overhead bin. It passed inspection. He only packed it to avoid suspicion. He was allowed back to Baker Street after his sentence to collect what would be needed for this mission.

Looking around the flat, he saw with underwhelming clarity how meaningless everything is; his beloved instrument still in one piece after twenty five years, the experiments, his entire life and career. It's all worthless, transport. He would abandon it all. He will miss nothing, because there is only one thing on this earth that he must take with him anywhere he has and would have gone.

And Sherlock will never see him again.

An empty suitcase would have sufficed.

 _It's what people do don't they?_

However, for John's peace of mind, on the back of a sheet of music, there is… a will of sorts. He doesn't remember what he wrote. He doesn't care what John does with his belongings. He did not want any of it, so why should John?

His chest tightens. He cannot pretend it is simply the concoction surging through his body because it shouldn't be taking effect this soon.

The despair that washes over him doesn't drown him as it should have. The drugs keep everything at a hazy distance. That is why it is called a high. He will soon be above it all, and never have to ground himself again.

He will be okay. John can continue. John does not _need_ like Sherlock does.

The door closes behind the flight attendant. Locks, and the plane begins its departure. They waste no time. In fact, time seems to have sped up. Or maybe he is the one slowing down.

Is he truly surprised by his fate? Is he that dumb to have not seen this?

He was an _addict_ who became a detective because police don't want to listen to the truth when it is a little boy or a junkie telling them what is right in front of their eyes. He was an egotistical _sociopath_ who cared more about his cleverness than the lives of the people who needed protection.

 _I'll continue not to make that mistake._

Sherlock's heart pounds against his ribs and he fidgets with the collar that feels like it could strangle him at any moment.

The point of his work was to distance himself from human error. The drugs had been drawing him deeper and deeper into an inescapable pit, but he found that the mysteries provided an adequate high for his brain. It was never about the clients, so there was never a point to connect with them. All that mattered was that he stay distracted.

But five years ago, on a perfectly ordinary day, a retired military surgeon with a psychosomatic limp offered him his phone. And three months later, he gave Sherlock consent to set off the explosives, that would most certainly result in both their deaths, if it meant a bomber was stopped. He worried for his mental acuity upon discovering he feared a drug induced vision of a hound. He was his one, his only, friend. He grieved his loss. Oh, how he grieved.

His best and most cherished friend - for that is all he was and would have ever been and no more - was a doctor with a danger addiction who lived with him and married an assassin. He is attracted to dangerous situations and people.

Sherlock never imagined anyone with a pulse would grieve over him. But he does not deserve John's grief now. He failed.

Mycroft has accepted his fate, so why does it trouble him to do the same?

 _John, there's something… I should say._

He couldn't. It would have been far too messy a truth had he told John. He had managed to keep it hidden for this long. What was a little longer? Of course there is a traitorous part of him that wishes he had not said what he said, but he would remember John's smile until his last breath. Sherlock can only hope that John understands he would never leave him if he was given a choice. That he had made his vow under the same oath the Watsons had earlier that day, that this was the only choice he was given, that if he was more than what he is, they would not part at death.

But therein is his greatest regret. William Sherlock Scott is just a man, a body of tissue and consciousness that can be dissected and buried.

Sherlock leans his head back. Everything is beginning to blur, and the acceleration from the plane's take off sends the cabin spinning.

Not long now.

The flight attendant will think him asleep. At the landing strip in Kiev, and she will tap his shoulder to let him know that they have arrived, and he won't respond. There will be no point in taking the body to a hospital. He will have been dead for several hours by then. Body cool to the touch, livor mortis set in with the blood pooled the back of the thighs, buttocks, and soles of the feet. The body will be stiff wit onsets of rigor mortis. Molly has seen it time and time again. This one will be no different. It will be delivered back to the United Kingdom, and a funeral will follow.

John Watson will grieve, but Mary won't let him hurt like last time. Sherlock wasn't lying. (Never when it comes to John.) He can think of no other man who could be a better parent.

The plane leaves the tarmac and he watches the trees below, shrinking as the plane gains height. Once the plane gets high enough, it will ascend the cloud cover and he will be able to see the sun. As last looks go, it could be much worse.

But he does not believe in Heaven, so it does not comfort him to think that this is what angels see.

Sherlock closes his eyes.

There is John, smiling. Smiling at him. They are together, like Before… yet it seems so far away, like a dream. It can't be a memory, because so much has changed. So much lost.

 _"Did it hurt him, Mummy?"_

He blinks hard at the vision in front of him.

 _"It's just like falling asleep, Willy. He's not suffering anymore."_

He stifles the sharp gasp that stutters into his lungs. He thought he could do it this way, alone. But he greatly overestimated his apathy. He needs John there with him. Even if they could not speak to each other, or look at each other, then he would concede. It would be more bearable than this.

But John is standing on the tarmac, probably miles away now. Gone forever and ever and ever. The end. A story doomed to end in -

Oh. Sherlock stares at the seat across from him.

He fumbles for his phone and grips it tight in his shaking hands. His palms are sweating, making it difficult to type. It is not fear, he tells himself. He gulps softly and steadies his fingers.

The words blur just a tad on the screen. Just the drugs taking effect.

A quick keyword in a search engine and he pulls it up.

 **29th January 2010,** **A Strange Meeting**

Sherlock blinks hard and the words swirl into focus.

 **The man knew who I was.**

 **It's mad. I think he might be mad.**

 **So, tomorrow we're off to look at a flat. Me and a madman. Me and Sherlock Holmes.**

His eyes are stinging again, and John's words are too blurry to read anymore. Idiot. He shuts it off and tosses it in the cup holder. He rests his head in his hands.

John didn't need to stay. Why did he? What sane man chooses to stay with a man possibly verging on psychotic? He should have walked out.

"Sorry, no thank you. I don't room with nutters."

Called the police upon seeing the skull.

"Yes sir, there's a lunatic with a body part in his flat."

Told the cab to stop.

"Piss off you freak. Who the hell would share a flat with you?"

But he did stay. And they were the best years of Sherlock's life.

Curse Mycroft for making him share flat just so he could have permission to live on his own. Curse Mike Stamford for introducing them. Curse John, yes, curse John, for staying by his side even at his lowest. When he came home high, when he heated tongues in the microwave, when the media turned against him, when he leapt from Bart's. Curse John for making him foolish.

He leans against the arm rest. The plane has angled sideways.

"Sir?"

Just brilliant. An agent pulls him out the fog in which he has immersed himself. Sherlock glances at him, irritated, then at the phone he's holding. He doesn't want to talk to anyone. Not now.

"It's your brother," the agent says.

He frowns and his insides tighten as he leans forward to take it. Of course Mycroft isn't going to let him leave without a final word. He swallows to clear cotton in his mouth. He holds the phone to his ear and looks out again.

"Mycroft." Good. He sounds normal.

"Hello little brother. How's the exile going?"

The taunt doesn't cut like it should. He is tired. For once, he doesn't want to trade insults.

"I've only been gone four minutes," he snaps.

"Well I certainly hope you've learnt your lesson."

Sherlock blinks. The hell?

"As it turns out, you're needed."

The world fades out for the seconds his heart skips in its rhythm. Did he hear that right? No. Surely not. Surely Mycroft is provoking him. He's descended to an even lower level of despicable. This can't be…

The plane has made a round turn and Sherlock can see the tarmac. The black car sitting next to two small figures.

The plane has turned around.

But why? He is a murderer – he shot a man in the head. He has been sentenced to die!

Was it all a ruse? A… cruel _prank_ to send him spiraling back to where he had been ten years ago? No. No, Mycroft isn't that sadistic. Did he see through the act? No, Sherlock was careful.

What the hell is going on?

"For god's sake make up your mind. Who needs me this time?"

Mycroft pauses on the other end. Sherlock watches the landscape like the rewinding of a video. He's on the left side now. He will see John and Mary when the plane lands.

"England."

Sherlock snorts, clearing the tension in his throat. He desperately rubs at his eyes. There is a high keening in his head from the mounting hysteria. _God no._ He will see. They will all know. Mycroft will know you were a coward. John will... Jesus. What will John say?

"You sure they want me back on their soil?"

"You are now the lesser of two evils. It appears, Sherlock, that the devil has risen."

The devil.

Two reptilian eyes, cold and malicious, blink at him through the mist hovering in the cabin, the mad grin of the spider who bested him baring white, devouring teeth.

 _You're on the side of the angels._

No. No, it can't be. That's… impossible. He was dead at his feet. Back of his head blown out and blood trickling against the concrete like a river of brain matter.

"And he wants to know if we have missed him."

Sherlock cannot speak. His tongue is too heavy. He is fading. There is a roaring in his ears, blocking out what Mycroft says next. He is descending, the world blurring. The phone is too heavy to hold any longer. It drops from his sweaty grasp and he stares straight ahead.

No. He shakes his head, blinking to clear the darkness. He's changed his mind. He has to stay. He has to focus.

Focus. _If_ he is back…

But why now? How? How could he have possibly known when to return?

His heart thunders against his sternum. No. No time for that. He inhales and lets it out slow. He must relax. Too much attachment to the outside will hinder what happens next.

 ** _:Search/95=how+does+one+return+from+the+dead+?/_**

His fingers loosen around the armrests.

He has to know for sure. He has to go back. Before. Before the Fall… before the Game, before John Watson.

The roaring fades. The numbers tick down, down… down…

 _Dear Jim. Please. Please, would you fix it for me?_

 _x_

 _x_

* * *

 **Hello! Hope you enjoyed it. Please review if you did! :)**


	2. Chapter 2: The Chemical Defect

**A/N: I received a request to continue to the end of** ** _The Abominable Bride_** **, and I thought, fair enough. So, here is the sequel to my prequel's midquel which extends into the Special. Enjoy. Possible triggers include the previous ones.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock or its characters. :'(**

* * *

 _When I left, I was leaving with a brother._

 _Him and me, all we had was one another._

 _We were young, it was springtime,_

 _and our dreams of gold were grand._

 _Oh Kristina, gold can turn to sand._

\- Gold Can Turn to Sand, "Kristina"

x

x

Sherlock's mind palace has a certain taste. He's never noticed it before now, but it definitely expels an aroma of rain with an under layer of formaldehyde.

 _It's raining... it's pouring..._

It's not like waking from a nightmare. No starting awake in a cold sweat, panting as he falls back with his heart pounding, but then looking around, relieved that it was only a dream. This isn't a movie, and that was not a dream.

There is no relief here. Drugs do not mix well with memory palaces. Sherlock very well knew this going in. Even if he hadn't... he probably would have anyway. A dead man's inconceivable return? A suicide turned resurrection? Nicotine - even nicotine _patches_ \- would have merely slowed him down.

 _I'm not an addict. I'm a user._

Nicotine helps him descend into his palace. It relaxes him, clouds his surroundings. If he is less distracted by the outside world, less inclined to be pulled from his research, then he focuses better. That is why John must leave the room when he has no aid. But nicotine is very mild in comparison to the mixture currently flowing through Sherlock. A small hand spade to the great bull dozer that digs him deeper and deeper within the recesses of his mind, a dark corner he has never enjoyed prowling through.

Narcotics cause a different reaction. He descends quicker, and can find what he needs in less than five minutes if it's an easy solution. But the harder the problem and more difficult the solution, then the more dangerous his session will be. He spends longer wandering, searching, and eventually forgetting the Now and being forced to confront the Before.

The heavier the dosage, the more difficult it becomes to resurface. It is a side effect of whatever he takes. Doesn't matter _what,_ because it is always the same. He forgets reality, as drugs were intended for, and invents his own. One where his pathetic fantasies draw him in like fishing lures, and if he doesn't have the proper incentive as a grounding tool, he will only fall deeper and deeper into his Wonderland.

But when he is able to wake up, it is a... _relief_. He is freed from the cage of his design.

Today is different though. It will always be different. Nothing will ever be the same because of him. Wakefulness is bittersweet on his tongue.

The rain is past, and all that remains is the closeness of three people surrounding him. _A.G.R.A... Brother Mine..._

John.

But... he just - they were just on a...

He's... on a plane? Why would he...

The sensation finally travels up his nerve endings, slowly rewiring themselves back to his hard drive. His transport aches; heartbeat slow, even for him. His skull is throbbing, pulsing with each beat of his heart. Reality is too bright. Why is it so blindingly white?

Then, it all... nauseatingly... comes back to him with one look at the pregnant woman across from him.

John's hand leaving his.

The phone call important enough to bring him back.

 _Did you make a list?_

 _This could kill you! You could die._

 _I'm not an addict._

He looks up. John is there. Just like he promis -

Oh no. No, no. No.

The look in his eyes sends Sherlock back to the night he returned, the night John got them kicked out of three food joints because he kept punching Sherlock in his grieving fury. He never thought he would actually wish for John's anger. He would take John's fist before he would ever face this man's...

The bruises on the insides of his arms, hidden under his jacket, sting. John will certainly search the flat when he gets the chance.

Oh _God_.

 _Shame_ wells inside him like a thorn, festering deeper and deeper until it causes him actual nausea. John was never supposed to look at him like that. He wants to crawl back into his mind palace. _Crawl_ on his hands and knees if only John will never look at him like that again.

But perhaps if he can convince him that there is nothing to... _worry_ about. It can go away. It can go back to normal.

"Miss me?" His voice cracks a tad. Just the drugs. He swallows in an attempt to loosen his throat.

Above all, John mustn't know. Never know.

The look changes to concern and the knot of remorse dissipates somewhat. "Sherlock? You alright?"

 _Not sure._ His muscles are stiffening. "Yes, course I am. Why wouldn't I be?"

"You probably just OD'd," Mary says. "You should be in Hospital?"

He shook his head. "No time. I have to go to Baker Street now." He stands. The cabin spins and rocks beneath his feet. Oh. Maybe he... he does need - No.

No, he won't go. He's spent too long in hospital as is. He will be fine once he get back in the game. Once he has the distraction again. He steadies himself, ignoring his shaking legs. "Moriarty's back."

But Mycroft, as usual, blocks his way. The look is on his face. Not quite like John's (doesn't cut as deep). Perhaps it is due to the numerous exposures to _his_.

 _I'm not angry with you._

Sherlock doesn't care. Why should he? It doesn't matter. Mycroft has an opinion about _everything_. He's never approved of Sherlock anyway. He has always been a burden to him. What's one more disappointment to add on to the ever growing list?

"I almost hope he is." He holds up the paper, the hangman's noose, the blade of the guillotine. "If it'll save you from this."

Sherlock yanks it from him, swallowing the bitterness in his mouth. (Just the drugs.) "No need for that now." He rips it in two, then another two, and lets the pieces fall to the floor. There. It's done. No more. They will never speak of it again. "I've got the real thing." He nods. "I have work to do."

He starts forward to step past Mycroft.

"Sherlock."

Christ, will he never make anything easy for him? Could he, just this _once_ , shut up and leave him the hell alone? It was his choice, and Mycroft is selfish for thinking that it was somehow to do with him. It was never about Mycroft. Why can't he see that? Why can't he see, that no matter how hard he tries, he will never change him. Sherlock, no matter if he is thirteen or thirty-eight, will always be the disappointment, the burden, the screw up to Mycroft's unconquerable prowess.

But maybe he too is exhausted today, for he only says two words. "Promise me."

Sherlock stares at him, sweat dampening his back.

 **...searching... memory/+recent+brother^30m**

 _"I'll wager with you."_

 _He heard Mycroft inhale slowly in the seat in front of him. "Wager?"_

 _Sherlock shrugged. "Haven't had a good gamble in a while."_

 _Mycroft's eyes met his in the rear view mirror. "What are we betting?"_

 _"I bet it takes longer than six."_

 _He could see his jaw tightening. He was grinding his teeth again. Another dental appointment would be made soon. Bad for the enamel._

 _"You won't get anything. You can't come back."_

 _"Even if the government owes me?"_

 _Mycroft smirked. Good. Sherlock was getting to him. "Your exile entails a wanted poster around all checkpoints in the United Kingdom. You cannot contact any British citizen and if you are caught inside the borders, you will be imprisoned, and there will be nothing I can do to stop them." His eyes hardened, that smirk now a snarl. "You are alone."_

 _The bubble of immature glee that had been growing in Sherlock the last ten minutes deflated._

 _"Good." He laced his fingers together. "I'll finally be free from this nation of idiots."_ _The car was approaching the tarmac. He could see a small white jet awaiting him. He looked up again at the front seat._ _"Last chance. You want to miss out on an opportunity to lose a hundred quid?"_

 _Mycroft didn't answer. The car stopped and he stepped out, followed by Sherlock. He had to slow down with every action. Unbuckling, pulling the door handle, even standing. Mycroft couldn't suspect anything, or it would be over. Sherlock shoved his hands in the pockets of his Belstaff and leaned against the car. Better to avoid swaying._

 _"Want to smoke?" he said._

 _Mycroft pursed his lips. "Not particularly."_

 _Sherlock shrugged. "Might be the last one I have for a while. If your estimation is correct, then I won't be here for the next Christmas."_

 _After a moment, Mycroft reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a case and his lighter. "I'm never wrong," he reminded him._ _Sherlock smirked and reached for it, but Mycroft held it back._ _"I won't gamble with your life."_

 _"Good." It was never his to gamble with in the first place._

 _"Sherlock."_ _Mycroft's upper lip curled in anger. "I don't want you wasting it. Especially on a mission like this."_

 _Sherlock blinked and looked around. The car with the Watsons was not there yet. "Oh please, are you actually going to say goodb - "_

 _"Sherlock - "_

 _"Nope." Sherlock shook his head, all amusement gone. "Not this time."_

 _Mycroft glared at him, his hands tightening around his umbrella. "Never again, thanks to you."_

 _Sherlock held out his hand. "Give me the damn cigarette, Mycroft." Thank goodness for his temper; it wasn't shaking._

 _His brother placed it in his outstretched palm. Before he pulled back, he locked with Sherlock's eyes. "Promise you won't."_

 _Sherlock took the cigarette. "Why?"_

 _The snarl was back. Mycroft angrily jammed his own cigarette into his mouth. "Forget it, you insufferable cheat."_

 **...memory_found+file:emMP *****

Sherlock is confused. Why does he care?

 _I was there for you before._

But then University happened. His career happened. John happened. Only... now he doesn't have John, because Mary happened.

Who does he have now?

 _I'll always be there for you._

Sherlock isn't sure whether it's the truth or not. He's always been good at reading people, apart from Mycroft. He has never been able to deduce Mycroft as well as he would have liked. It would have saved him a lifetime of difficulty if he were able.

But he doesn't have time to wonder if Mycroft is telling the truth, or if he cares. Sherlock doesn't care. Why should Mycroft? It won't do him any good. Either of them.

"What are you still doing here?" Frustration is making his throat is close up again. He needs to get out of there. "Shouldn't you be off getting me a _pardon_ or something? Like a proper big brother?"

And without another look, he shoulders past, and hurries off this accursed plane, Mary and John close behind. He slides his coat on, the biting air of January cutting into his skin like razors.

He hears John behind him. "Sherlock, hang on. Explain. Moriarty's alive."

"I never said he was alive. I said he was _back_."

"So he's dead," Mary restates, nodding.

Sherlock blinks. "Course he's dead. He blew his own brains out, no one survives that." He pulls his gloves on. "I just went to the trouble of an overdose to prove it."

Not true. And John knows it. Fat Mycroft couldn't have kept his bloody mouth shut.

Sherlock straightens his back. He can do this. "Moriarty is dead, no question, but more importantly, I know exactly what he's going to do next." He heads around to the passenger side of the car.

"Sorry? Did you just say you know his plan?" John heads for the other side.

"Yes."

"Course. Course you do." John opened the door in the backseat. "Sure it's not the drugs talking?"

Sherlock nearly pulls off the door handle. _Not an addict._ He pauses, calming himself and exhales. "Yes."

"So what is his plan? Or, whoever it is that's doing this."

 _Hasn't this all... happened before? There's nothing new under the sun._

Sherlock leans back in the cold backseat of the car. John climbs in next to him.

"This new player is using Moriarty as a mask."

"How does that help us in planning his next move."

"Because they will be following his pattern. They are new but the game is old. One that I - we - have played before."

"A copycat," Mary supplies.

He sighs. "Precisely." He lays his head back. The sweat has cooled against his lower back.

The driver starts the car up and it pulls away from the tarmac. Good riddance. Sherlock's stomach lurches with the movement. He swallows quickly.

The headache has escalated to a splitting migraine that radiates across his skull with an epicenter just behind his eyes. He leans on his shoulder against the car door and shades his eyes with his hand.

John clears his throat. "'Scuse me, do you think we could stop for some water?"

Another voice. "Here."

"Sherlock."

He opens his eyes. John is holding a bottle of water. Sherlock twists off the cap and swallows. He needs to flush it all out of his system. Another few days of delay.

His head is heavy.

"Hey." A tap on his arm.

"Mm?"

"Can you talk to me?"

"No," he mutters.

John takes the bottle from him. "You need to keep talking."

He rubs his temples. "This is hardly the first time this has happened, Doctor. I am capable of taking care of myself."

"Maybe not, but it is the first time it wasn't an accident."

To that, Sherlock has no response. He couldn't even if were able.

 _Controlled usage is not usually fatal._

 _Controlled._

 _Usually._

Oh John. Sherlock smiles a little. What will he do without him?

And it is then that the anxiety he has been avoiding since the wedding overwhelms him. It has been growing, festering inside him like a disease that he's had to work harder and harder with each passing month to supress. Now, the fatigue and controlled overdose have provided the perfect breeding ground. The pain returns with a vengeance into Sherlock's (heart) brain. The terror of John leaving him, and he most assuredly will this time. He will leave because of the baby, and Sherlock will be...

He shuts his eyes and, to his horror, wet, hot tracks make their way down his face.

He hates everyone right now, no matter how ridiculous. He hates Moriarty for murdering Carl Powers. He hates Mary for being a liar. He hates his brother for confusing him.

But he hates himself more than any of them, dead or alive. He hates what he is. Hates that he still feels things. Hates that he hopes for something that has been impossible since the first moment. For weaving a fantasy in his head about how much better life would be if John was there. How John can protect Sherlock better than Sherlock can. How _stupid_ he is compared to Mycroft. (Mycroft would never have gotten himself in this situation.) Mycroft isn't weak like he is.

He doesn't need a center of orbit. He doesn't need _anyone._

There is a hand on his arm, shaking him.

"Okay, stop the car! We need to stop."

He feels the seatbelt loosen around his waist and hears a door open before the car has completely stopped, letting in the cold.

"Shh, Sherlock," Mary is saying. "It's okay. We've stopped now."

The door next to him opens, bright unfeeling daylight drilling into his senses, and two surprisingly strong hands grip him around the shoulders.

"Come on," John grunts in his ear. "Let's - No, stay there, we're fine. Just... give us a minute."

His feet scrape along the gravel on the side of the road. John's hand on his arm, guiding him.

"It's okay. I've got you now. Just breathe. Here." They've stopped. "Let's set you down now. Nice and easy. There we go." John eases him to his knees on the ground. He doesn't feel so lightheaded now, but the ground is still spinning. Like a merry-go-round, the world is going too fast. He can't focus on anything stationary in this chaos. "It's okay. No one's here. Just breathe."

He does. He sits there, hard gravel digging into his shins and knees, and he breathes. He feels John's fingers pressing into his wrist. His pulse thunders under his skin.

"You alright?" John is looking at him, holding his face close. "You've got to calm down... easy now." Sherlock gasps, the air stuttering out of him when he manages to inhale. "It's alright."

His fingers clench in the sleeve of John's coat, terrified that the reason he made him walk away from the car is because John, repelled by his weakness and inability to cope, plans to leave him. He hides his face in the crook of his arm, wiping away the wetness from his eyes and nose. Perhaps if he explains, if he can somehow convince John that he has not regressed, then maybe he will be less inclined to leave him in a broken heap on the side of the freeway.

"Six months is too long to w - "

"Please... don't..." John's voice cracks.

Sherlock's breath hitches and he clings to John's sleeve.

 _No. Please, John._ Sherlock blinks, another burning wetness following the same path as the last one rolls down his face.

John cannot leave him. Not like this.

He looks down at his hands. They're shaking. He tries to still them before John notices.

He swallows. "I wasn't... _meant_ to come back."

John places his hands over Sherlock's. They are so still compared to his.

"I was supposed to leave." He stares at John. His stomach is clenching. He feels like he's going to vomit, but he can't. He hasn't eaten anything in days. John will be upset with him.

"Hey. Hey, now. It's going to be okay." Sherlock gulps down a sob and tries to breathe through his tight chest. John grips his hands. "You're not leaving."

They sit like that, and gradually the merry-go-round slows and Sherlock is able to focus. Once upon a time, he and John quarreled about the earth's orbit around the... moon, or something or another. Once upon a time, he would never have cared about other peoples' orbits. It didn't matter to him. They could orbit their own stupid sun.

Sherlock orbits another.

"We're going to go back to Baker Street now. I'm going to call Molly, see if we can get you right again. And you're going to eat and have a proper night's rest, because it looks like you haven't slept in a week."

Sherlock's laugh sounds like choking. His breaths rattle in his chest. He nods slowly.

"I'm sorry, John," he blurts, and he means it down to the soles of his feet. _So sorry._ So... incalcuably sorry than he's ever been before.

But he doesn't know how to tell John that. Doesn't know how to tell him that for once, he had no idea what to do. After Mycroft had told him his fate - his hand separate from Sherlock's by an inch of bullet proof glass and chicken wire - he despaired. The wheel had finally circled in full rotation and brought him back where he started. Alone, and not a friend in the world who wanted to help him. Only it was far more painful this time because he knew what had been lost.

There was no one to help him and so he turned to the only comfort he had.

The only thing that can take away six months of pain. (Sherlock has read many studies about subjects who go mad after subjected to continuous torture for a long duration of time.)

To live six months in the foreseeable future never to see his dearest friend again, only to end up gunned down in an East Lithuanian alleyway, or tortured in another Serbian dungeon for information, was unbearable. It would not have been worth his bloodshed this time. He could not mentally endure that pain again. He wanted it to stop.

And for that, he does not know if John can forgive him.

John nods. His eyes are red. "Come here."

His pulls Sherlock's upper body into him, and wraps his arms around the taller man's neck, and... Sherlock freezes. He has not had contact with another human being since Janine, and that was displeasing for him. Even Mummy and Dad felt hesitant to initiate physical affection with him. And now this. He knows what his arms should do. He knows how small John is compared to him. How easy he fits into Sherlock's hold. The question is not if he knows what to do, but what happens when he does it. If he responds, he may never let go. Can he let go?

But he must take that risk, because he wants this. He needs this. Fuck the rehab centers. If he had this, then there would have been a reason to quit. His arms circle John, and wrap tighter and he shifts closer. He holds John, his chin on his shoulder, Sherlock's cheek resting by John's temple. And they stay that way for a long time, Sherlock shaking against John's still form.

"You're going to be okay," John says.

Sherlock nods, wiping his eyes. He can feel John's heartbeat in his temple.

But he's not sure if he will be. Okay, that is.

"I'll stay with you." John squeezes his shoulder. "It won't be like last time."

They pull apart, and Sherlock stares at him in disbelief.

"Mary?"

John nods, understanding. "I'll talk to her." He pressed his lips together. "But I don't want to leave you alone. Not for a while, anyway." He sniffs and clears his throat. "Now come on. Let's get you home."

They stand, _slowly_ because everything is spinning again and Sherlock lets out a shaky breath. He feels himself sway and grabs ahold of John's sleeve. He trails beside him as they walk back to the car.

Mary looks up from her phone and watches them walk to the car from the front seat.

Sherlock stands outside the open door, waiting for John to climb in. A wall of dark clouds accumulates towards the East. There is a storm coming, soon. He closes his eyes and inhales.

It smells like rain.

x

x

* * *

 **So, there you have it. It was intended to be just a one-shot, but a second edition can't hurt. Hopefully everyone enjoyed it. If you did, please review.**


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